If the book is to be defined in one word,
then I would prefer to call it surreal. It is the safest blanket word for
anything weird and dream like smitten with unexpected elements of surprise
that, however, in the context of the novel do not hold absolutely true. Jeet Thayil
appears, in a subtle way, inspired by Salman Rushdie; the way he sets in motion
the story in retrospect as a dramatic monologue into each of our ears
individually, one by one and we begin to get high on those heavy pot smoked-stoned
words. The first few pages are a deliberate attempt on the technique of stream
of consciousness. The words that the narrator blurts out as though said in a
state of trance are thoroughly premeditated and unfortunately are not in line
with the rest of the narration when we meet again Dom Ullis in the last page. Nonetheless
Thayil deserves respect for he is not just a writer of these events but an
active member in the story if not carved out as himself, but following his journey
with drugs a bit of him may be observed in every character.
Reading this book is like going to a movie
and coming out of the theatre without a major change in your expressions, you
only grow a tad grim but would not like to discuss it with anyone. Words flow
effortlessly like poetry and excellent imagery and dream like sequences of
classic trance are witnessed. For me here lies the victory of the book; dreams
are brutal, hallucinations are ruthless and sobriety is only paid occasional
visits like one of the brothels in the book. In a way Narcopolis is a scary
story, for the author never once smiles throughout the narration, even when he
does it is only at the misery of the characters or rather his own self. It is a
sadistic take on reality where characters are too real to forget smiling but in
the midst of way too real situations to introduce any mirth.
One thought sprouts another under the influence
of opium and dope and chemical and heroine and an entire array of narcotics. Gradually
the narration moves ahead independently and acquires a less familiar shape and
indulges in a strange kaleidoscopic pattern. The unfolding takes us from
Shuklaji Street to China several decades ago and takes us forward to communal
tensions in the 90s. Thayil often yields to egoistical tantrums that writers
sometimes throw, through over involvement in the story that a storyteller must
not be a victim of, sometimes even boasting the fact off that he knows more
than the readers do.
So far, I have not said a word about the
story of the book because a story has only been woven in order to highlight the
dark crevices and webby niches of the glamorous Bombay. It does not sound like
Bombay at all but at the same time there is no surprise. The dark demons of the
night live in the wombs of gutters and alleys with illegitimate signboards, and
every big city blows a sooty trumpet of such a corner. There are eunuchs and
there is trade of the flesh and there are drags from chillums and imported
China pipes yet there is heart and there are hopeless longings and there are
sighs, but there are also castrations and pain and madness and shame. It is a
filthy book but not without a fair amount of very natural emotions.
All in all, the book is a gripping one. I am
not a good judge of a book but this one deserves to be read if not win a Booker
Prize. Read it for the taste of that transcendental addiction to poetry that
Thayil germinates within us.
